


Just How Well We Managed

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: It's not always about bees, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Tumblr Shorts, but it's more about Sherlock's pants, fluff without smut, married detective husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for a project that it didn't quite suit, but I love it too much to just abandon it. I hope you like this small bit of fluff :)</p>
<p>
  <i>“John.” Sherlock drew up short on the pavement. John sighed as he turned back around. By now, he was well used to his name being used as a moniker and insult, as critical and exasperation all in one. “Your ears are perfectly functional. I refuse to believe you didn't hear that monstrous gremlin yammering on about…”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“My hearing is fine,” john interrupted flatly.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Then you weren't listening.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just How Well We Managed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Мы прекрасно устроились](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11696268) by [darandna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darandna/pseuds/darandna)



“Did you hear that?”

“Sorry?” John glanced over without breaking stride.

“That is absolutely atrocious,” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s question. “How could anyone possibly allow their child to…”

“Sorry, Sherlock, what's atrocious?”

“John.” Sherlock drew up short on the pavement. John sighed as he turned back around. By now, he was well used to his name being used as a moniker and insult, as critical and exasperation all in one. “Your ears are perfectly functional. I refuse to believe you didn't hear that monstrous gremlin yammering on about…”

“My hearing is fine,” john interrupted flatly.

“Then you weren't listening.”

John heaved another sigh. “I was busy listening to you. Git.”

Sherlock frowned. “Can't you multitask?” Before John could answer, Sherlock was off again, striding away at speed, and John had to scramble to catch up.

When he fell in at Sherlock's side, he shot a wary glance his way. “You still haven't told me where we're going.”

“Train station,” he responded simply.

“Ah.” John gave a nod. “Of course we are. And are we getting on a train?”

“Clearly.”

“Clearly,” John muttered wryly. “Any particular train, or whichever strikes your fancy?”

“John,” the corner of his mouth quirked in the beginnings of a smile. “As though the two are mutually exclusive.”

“Of course.” 

“Though to answer your question: Sussex.”

“We're going to Sussex? Right now?”

“Well, not right now. We've to get to the train first. Then we'll be going to Sussex. At present, we're going to the station.”

“Sherlock,” John warned.

“Case, John.”

John sidestepped an obstacle that Sherlock seemed well oblivious to. “In Sussex?”

“Mmn,” Sherlock hummed.

“When did you get a case in Sussex?”

Sherlock waggled his mobile at John and smirked. “Two minutes ago. Do try and keep up.”

John just sighed. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, John sighed again from his bench seat on the train. He sighed again. Loudly. And in mild irritation. “Are you going to tell me what the case is? At all?” When no response was forthcoming, he crossed his arms. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock frowned and tore his eyes away from the clearly engrossingly fascinating countryside flying past the windows. “I suspect I will. But now I need to think.”

That was probably as much of an answer as he was going to get. At least for now. John sighed again and pushed out of his seat. Maybe he could find a cup of tea and a roll. Lord only knew when he'd get to eat again.

~o~

“So, you're telling me that someone stole the bees?” He knew he wasn't keeping the incredulous expression from his face, but it really couldn't be helped.

The caretaker nodded emphatically.

“And… you're sure they didn't… I don't know… just… leave?”

The caretaker glanced at Sherlock and this time, Sherlock huffed in agitation. “Leave? John.”

“They can fly,” he offered lamely. “It's not as though they're captive or anything.”

“It's not the colony that's gone, John,” Sherlock said pointedly. “It's the hive.”

“The hive? Like the…” he made a boxy gesture with his hands.

“Yes. The…” Sherlock mimicked the pantomime crudely.

“Oh. Well that changes things.”

It was a miracle Sherlock didn't sprain something with the eye roll that followed. John frowned at him. There was no need to be rude about it. It wasn't as though someone had informed him of that rather important detail yet. “I'll need to see the site.”

“Shouldn't we speak to the owner?” It wasn't that he was afraid of bees; John had simply always felt that he should leave them well enough alone so that they'd leave him well enough alone.

The caretaker gave Sherlock a rather panicked and helpless look. It was worse than when he'd asked about the bees just leaving.

Sherlock's head snapped around. “What? Why? No. Don't be stupid.”

John frowned harder. “It's not stupid.”

“It is.”

“It has never been stupid before, Sherlock. Why is it stupid now?”

“Are you always this oblivious?”

“Sherlock!”

“I don’t have time for this.” Sherlock glared at the caretaker, “Make sure he doesn’t injure himself, I’m worried about his mental capacity.” Then he turned on his heel and stomped out the back door.

John sighed, crossed his arms, and massaged the throbbing spot between his brows with the tip of his finger. He was debating whether or not to name the headache, seeing as it was likely to stay with him for the evening. Sussex. Bees. Maybe this one would be Sherlock Jr. And with a quick glance at his watch, John knew that they’d be missing the last train back to London. Which wouldn’t be a problem for most people, except John was also quite certain that the concept of dinner hadn’t passed through Sherlock’s mind. Nor would he have considered such pedestrian things as sleep. Or a bed. Somewhere. Anywhere. At some point in the next few days. John sighed again and pulled out his mobile. Surely there was a hotel, or inn, or B&B somewhere nearby. Anywhere nearby really.

~o~

“I still don’t understand how you could possibly have…” John glared. “You were literally out there for five hours and you didn’t notice…” He clenched his jaw to hold back the angry tirade threatening to erupt at any moment. “Did you even bother to bring an extra pair of trousers?!”

Sherlock lifted his chin from where he’d cradled it in his palm and twisted slowly to look at John. “You could hardly have failed to notice that I did not bring any luggage.”

“No. Of course not.” John nodded. “Why would you bring luggage if we’re going out of town? Why would you tell me that we’re even leaving London? Why would you keep to the path and not slide down a hill and rip open the seat of your trousers? Why would you think we would need a place to stay? Why would you tell me I’m stupid for suggesting what you  _ always _ suggest yourself? Why. The HELL. Are we HERE, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock closed his eyes as if asking for patience. “John,” he started.

“No. No,” John raised a finger. “Don’t you ‘John’ me. Don’t start.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“We are going to check into this one last room I managed to find. We are going to eat whatever food the kitchen can scrounge up for us at this hour. And you are going to let me sleep for at least five unbroken hours, or so help me Sherlock… Hi,” John plastered a weak and painfully false smile on his face as the clerk finally emerged from wherever he’d been hiding and approached the desk. “We have a booking.” He slid his credit card across the desk. Sherlock frowned at the side of John’s head. Glared really. John pointedly ignored him and forced another smile at the clerk.

The clerk made an apologetic sound. “There seems to be some mistake; all I have left is a room with a king bed.”

John’s face pinched.

“We have some lovely two-bedded rooms, it’s just there’s this tournament going on, and you managed to get the last room we have, and everyone else has checked in.”

Sherlock made a rather ambiguous sound that John knew well was disgust and he really didn’t want to hear exactly how rude Sherlock intended to be. “That’s fine,” John ground out. 

“Again, my apologies.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” John carefully replaced his card in his wallet as the two keys were slid in his direction. Sherlock snatched one and stalked off without a word. John followed his retreat with narrowed eyes then sighed heavily and collected the second key. “Please tell me your kitchen is still open?”

The clerk brightened. “You’re in luck. It’s open for another thirty minutes. And there’s beer.”

“Thank Christ.”

~o~

It had taken effort, more effort and charm than John would care to admit, to convince the kitchen to give him a tray and let him abscond with the food. Quite silly really. He was staying in the damn place. And it wasn’t as if the crockery was anything to write home about. Perhaps he’d been a touch manipulative in the end. But now he had two sambos, a bowl of chips, tea for two, and a pint of beer. Which would have been lovely, if not for the locked door. He knew better than to knock. Sherlock, whatever state he was in on the other side, would not be in a state to bother with a door. In the end, John sacrificed a large slosh of beer and a few chips in the name of self-reliance and shouldered his way into the room.

Sherlock was, as he’d suspected, curled into a sullen ball on the far corner of the bed, shoes off (thankfully), ripped trousers still on (how even?!), with his back to the door. At least he’d left the light on. John sighed, set the tray on the desk, slipped off his shoes, shucked his jacket, and retreated to the loo. As much as he wanted a proper shower, he just needed to refresh a bit before facing down the tantrum in the room.

Feeling more human, John moved the food to the nightstand and planted himself firmly in center of the bed, propping himself against the headboard with the bowl of chips. “Sherlock, come eat something.”

“No.”

John tried not to laugh and mostly succeeded, but a smile edged into the corners of his mouth. “Sherlock. You look ridiculous.”

“You look ridiculous.”

John snorted and cocked his head to the side. “I’ve always been rather fond of your navy pants.” The sound could have been embarrassed or indignant, but Sherlock curled in tighter on himself. “I see London, I see France…”

“Stop. That is somehow infinitely worse than the one about the bees that the horrible monster child was singing on the street.”

John grinned. “Sherlock, luv, come over here.”

“No.”

“I have chips.” He ate one. Noisily. “I’ll finish them myself if you don’t come over here.”

Sherlock twisted, craning his neck to glare over his shoulder. “I thought I’d stay over here. Seems like the best plan if we’re just going to ‘manage.’”

Nope, he wasn’t taking that bait. “Sherlock, you well know I can only be blindingly furious at one person at a time. Works pretty well when I spend all my time with you. Everyone thinks I’m lovely.”

Sherlock huffed and curled back into a ball.

“Sherlock,” John said firmly. “You said I was stupid then went and ripped your trousers open. You were worse than rude when I suggested buying another pair. And you told me that my sleep is only going to hinder your work. It has not been a stellar day. So you’re going to have to give me a bit of leeway when I don’t terrorize a night clerk for assuming we’re just mates. Now please, come over here so I can finger feed you chips before they get cold.”

He moved slowly, as if he were reluctant, or doing John some sort of enormous favor. But in a few moments, Sherlock had managed to plant his head in John’s lap and bury his face against John’s tummy. “I don’t want chips.”

“Then it’s a good thing I got you a sandwich and tea.”

Sherlock huffed into John’s shirt.

“Don’t give me that,” John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You haven’t eaten all day. I’m worried about your mental capacity.”

Sherlock tried to glare at him, but there was no heat in it. “That’s horrible.”

“I know,” John smiled. “Now eat your sandwich. Then you can tell me what you did all evening aside from destroying your clothes. And tomorrow, we can go back, and I’ll brave the bees, and you can solve this.”

“Already did,” Sherlock said flippantly, pushing himself up and reaching across John to snatch half of one of the sandwiches.

“You already did what?”

“Solved it.”

John blinked as Sherlock crammed far too much food into his mouth in one bite. “You solved it?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Sherlock mumbled mid chew. “One of those anti-animal cruelty groups thought they’d liberate one of the hives.” The corner of his mouth drew up into an unholy smirk. “Not terribly experienced handling bees though.”

John snickered. “That’s terrible.”

“What they were doing was terrible. As you so bluntly stated, it wasn’t as if the bees were captives. Are you going to drink your pint?”

“Yes,” John took the beer from him before he could consume much more than a swig. “Eat the rest of your sandwich.” Sherlock picked up the other half of his meal and flopped against John’s side. It was only with experience that John managed to keep from spilling his drink everywhere. “I guess you were right,” he said finally.

“Right? Of course I was right. What was I right about this time?”

John nudged his nose against Sherlock’s temple. “About talking to the owner, Git.”

“Oh.” He tilted his face into the caress. “Clearly.”

“Clearly,” John muttered, setting aside his beer and the bowl of chips.

“I am the owner.”

“What?”

Sherlock mustered his most innocent expression. “The owner. That’s my estate.”

John blinked. “Your estate.”

“Yes.”

John blinked again. “Oh my God, Sherlock!”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

“Oh God. No wonder the caretaker gave me that look! He must have thought I was barmy! ‘We should talk to the owner.’” John broke down laughing. “Sherlock! You idiot!”

Sherlock frowned harder. “What?”

“You…” John doubled over in laughter. “Why the hell did you walk around all evening with your pants hanging out?!”

“I…”

“Why are we staying here?!”

“… Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” John chuckled at the look of consternation on Sherlock’s face. “How can you be so clever, and yet…”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Ha! That’s rich coming from you.”

“John.”

“Hm?” John managed to rein in his laughter, hold it back behind a smug smile.

“I had Mycroft put your name on the deed six months ago.”

“You did not!”

“I did.”

John burst out in a fresh round of giggles. “I should have been talking to myself then!”

“You were. Muttering really.”

Now Sherlock was just egging him on. John retaliated by tackling Sherlock down on the bed and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Sherlock squirmed. “So… Bees, huh?”

“I’ve always liked bees.”

“Mmn,” John shifted, molding himself along Sherlock’s body. “Of course you have.”

“They’re really quite fascinating, John.”

“I’m sure they are,” John nosed along the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, finding one spot in particular to nip.

“John! John,” Sherlock tugged on his hair gently until John pulled back enough to meet his gaze. “I just had an idea.”

“Oh?” John raised a brow. “Just one?”

“In the morning, I want the state of this bed to demonstrate just how well we managed.”

John grinned. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.”


End file.
